


Cherry Bomb

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, M/M, McLennon, Memphis 1966 cherry bomb incident, Nightmare Imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 11:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11942916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: A cherry bomb can refer either to the firework or to a person who's likely to "go off" and do something dangerous."John's fingers shake wildly as he traces down Paul's chest to his abdomen, feeling for a wound. Doubting Thomas. Only Paul's not crucified, not shot, he didn't die for John's sins, he's not dead, but alive and breathing and troubled and beautiful."





	1. Chapter 1

CHERRY BOMB

***

August 19, 1966  
Memphis, Tenessee

 

CRACK!  
Rifle shot.  
John whirls around. There's no one behind the drum kit anymore. Ringo's gone. A trail of blood is trickling down the riser.

CRACK!  
Rifle shot.  
John sees something land at his feet. Too big to be a jelly baby, too bloody. Bloody. It's a disembodied hand, raggedly blown away at the wrist. In the background, as Mal wraps up his bloody stump, George is screaming, screaming, screaming.

CRACK!  
Rifle shot.  
Paul clasps his bass tightly at his waist, then drops to his knees. Blood is everywhere, from Ringo's unseen body, from George's shattered wrist, and now from Paul's belly, rivers of sticky, metallic, GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY blood. Paul looks up, agonized, and as his body convulses in death throes he rasps out, "I forgive you, Johnny."

Where's the fourth shot, the one meant for him? John steps over the river of Ringo's blood, over Paul's lifeless corpse, over George's poor hand, toward the front of the stage. "What about me, then?" he shouts to the baying, jeering masses. He tears his shirt open, exposing the very heart of him. He braces for the shot but it never comes. Nothing will ever relase him from this agony. "Why won't you kill me? I can't live with this, please, please, kill me!"

"John..."

"It's all my fault, it's too late, oh God..."

"John, ssh, please..."

"Oh God, no, no, NO!"

Strong, sturdy hands hold him by the shoulders, shaking him. "Hush, John, you're having a nightmare and you need to wake up. C'mon, Johnny, open your eyes, that's it..."

John's eyes snap open. He gasps, takes in a lungful of air conditioning and sleep-warm Paul. HIs senses are on overdrive, and even though his weak eyes can barely focus on Paul in the moonlit room, he gazes at him from the crown of his head to his bare toes.

His face - his face isn't showing pain anymore. It's fear. Concern.

He's alive. Paul's alive.

"You're...you're not dead!" John hears himself whimper.

Paul's anxious fingers relax a little bit but he keeps his hands planted on John's upper arms. "Dead tired, dead worried about you, but dead, dead? Nope."

John's fingers shake wildly as he traces down Paul's chest to his abdomen, feeling for a wound. Doubting Thomas. Only Paul's not crucified, not shot, he didn't die for John's sins, he's not dead, but alive and breathing and troubled and beautiful.

Okay, then.

"It was just a bad dream," Paul soothes. "It's over now, Johnny, I've got you."

"I can't see you, Paul. I need to SEE you."

"Ssh, hang on a sec." Paul leans over and turns on the little light on the nightstand between their beds, then hands John his glasses. "See? I'm right here."

John fumbles with the glasses before settling them on the bridge of his nose. Sure enough, it's Paul, whole and NOT DEAD. John shakes his head, surprised to feel locks of his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat even though the room is pleasantly cool.

Following John's train of thought as he always does, Paul leans forward and fluffs up the wet strands of John's hair. "Must've been a hell of a nightmare," he murmurs.

"Mmm." John presses his head against Paul's hand, longing for the feel of his warm, living flesh.

"Want to talk about it?" Paul asks as he massages John's temples. 

"Shit, no!" John places his hands over Paul's wrists, needing to feel his pulse, but his trembling fingers won't stay in place.

Paul shifts and draws John into his arms. "You're still shaking," he whispers into John's ear. "What can I do, what do you need?"

All of a sudden, it's crystal clear. "I need to see them," John blurts out.

It's evidently not crystal clear to Paul, who stares at John, blinking fast. "See...who?"

"Ringo. George. I need to see 'em."

"It's three in the morning..."

"Please?"

Sighing, as if clearly dealing with an upset child rather than a grown man, Paul untangles himself from John and the sheets and pads over to the bathroom. He's in pyjamas, barefoot, his black hair standing up in a dozen places.

He's beautiful. He's John's savior.

"Here, put this on," Paul instructs, tossing John one of the hotel's terrycloth bathrobes and taking one for himself. "They're gonna fucking kill us for waking them up, you know that."

John stops cold, one arm in the robe and the other hanging loosely.

KILL.

His ears buzz with rising panic. He can hardly hear Paul's concerned question: "John, what WAS that dream?"

"They killed you," John stammers. "On the stage. You and Ringo. They shot George's hand off. I wanted them to kill me but they wouldn't."

"Jesus." Paul puts his palms on either side of John's face, his hands warm and soothing despite the callused fingertips, then he helps John finish putting on the robe. "Let's go, then."

They're not in a suite tonight, so they have to walk out into the hotel's hallway to get to George and Ringo's room. There are guards, armed policemen, and John shudders at the sight of the guns strapped to their hips.

"They're protecting us," Paul reassures him as he gives the guards a polite smile and guides John to the doorway. He knocks softly.

"Wha...?" George's voice is thick with sleep and cigarette smoke when he opens the door. He gapes at Paul and John. "Is there a fire?" he asks, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

Both fists.

John thinks George is the most perfect thing he's ever seen.

"Sorta. Let us in?" Paul asks, propelling John through the door and waiting for George to close it behind them.

George's hair is mussed and tangled in a dozen places. John wonders if he's been tossing and turning all night. Putting his fingers to his lips, George indicates Ringo's bed.

Ringo is out cold, snoring softly. John thinks it sounds like music.

"He was going crazy. I've never seen him so strung-out," George whispers. "Brian gave him something to help him sleep."

John crosses the room quietly, peering down at Ringo, timing his own breath with that of his sleeping friend. He touches Ringo's hair, and Ringo mumbles something nonsensical as he turns his face toward the pillow. He's alive. 

A sudden resurgence of panic seizes John and he races to George, then grabs both of George's hands. He stares at them for several long moments, examining the backs and the palms and the places where his fingertips are worn shiny from so many hours of practice. He wants to kiss them, but he knows George would throw him across the room for it, so he settles for staring.

Bewildered, George looks over to Paul, who whispers, "He had a nightmare about the firecracker thing at the concert. He dreamt that we got shot."

John exhales loudly when George wraps a long, sinewy arm around his neck and pulls him in for a hug. "It's okay now," he says, his voice as gentle as John has ever heard it. "It was only a cherry bomb, Johnny. Our Louise says kids make 'em all the time here. They don't hurt anyone unless they blow up right in your hand."

They exchange loopy, exhausted grins for a second, then George flops back down on his bed. John's wavering on his feet, beyond exhausted. He's thankful when Paul slips an arm around his waist to support him.

"Best get him back to bed, Paul," George suggests as he snuggles down under his own blankets. "G'night, guys."

"Night, George," Paul says with a look of weary gratitude. 

John's tremors have lessened now that he's touched everyone. Even knowing that he's able to start putting the terror behind himself, though, he still craves Paul's strength and warmth.

They shuffle back to their own room, where Paul shucks out of the robe and lets it pool at his feet. Apprehension has creased his forehead, and his eyes are ringed with dark circles. How long has it been since Paul had a decent night's sleep? 

"You look knackered," John murmurs. 

"I've had better weeks."

John perches on the edge of his bed, slumping, with his head in his hands. "I've really fucked everything up."

Paul takes a seat next to him and drapes his arm around John's shoulders. "I don't think that even you're capable of creating a shitstorm like this, son. It takes a whole insane country to do that."

John's laugh is more like a dry hiccup. "That'll be the last time I give my opinion on something."

"Nah." Paul jostles him, then leans his cheek against John's hair. "It wouldn't be right if you weren't inflaming the masses every so often. I'd miss you."

The words fly out of John's mouth before he has a chance to weigh them: "I already miss you."

Paul stiffens a bit but doesn't move away. "I'm right here, Johnny," he says, so softly that John feels rather than hears Paul's voice.

"No." _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , John thinks as he shifts to face Paul. "I MISS you." He cups Paul's chin, the stubble scratching audibly against his fingers in the stillness of the room. 

Paul, master of the public persona, doesn't seem to be able to control his features tonight, not when it's just himself and John. John is fascinated by the downward turn of Paul's mouth, mirroring the way the corners of his eyes droop. Those eyes, usually sparkling with energy, are so wounded and weary that John feels sympathetic pain all the way to the marrow of his bones. He wants - no, needs - to kiss that pain away, so he leans forward.

But Paul tilts his head away.

***  
End Part 1/2  
***


	2. Chapter 2

For the second time in as many hours, John's world careens out of control.

He's not entirely positive that he's truly awake. He could still be trapped in a nightmare, one where Paul isn't dead but merely cold and unapproachable, where he doesn't love John anymore and it's all because of John's words, his actions, his very soul.

John's fingers are cold where moments before they had been secure and warm against Paul's face. He can pick up a faint hint of fragrances from where he had contacted Paul's skin: Ivory soap - particular to all American hotels, it seems - and a hint of toothpaste. Clean, comforting aromas.

There are other scents he associates with Paul. Some are public, like his aftershave and the spearmint gum he favors when his mouth is dry from too much weed. Others are private, just-John-and-Paul smells of musk and sex-sweat, metal guitar strings and tobacco, all mixed together in an olfactory quilt.

Oh, God, what if he'll never know that comfort again...

He's trembling from head to foot now, so over-wound that it takes a long time for him to realize that Paul's face may be averted but that his arm is still around John's shoulders, holding tightly.

Where there's life, there's hope.

"P-Paul?" John stutters.

There's a deep sigh, then Paul says, again, "I'm right here, Johnny."

John slithers out of Paul's embrace, landing cat-like at his feet. He folds his arms on Paul's lap and gazes up at him with what he hopes is his most winsome expression. "Then why? Why wouldn't you let me--"

"Because I'm not your stuffed toy, John," Paul says. His tone is matter-of-fact but his eyes are impossibly sad. "You can't just box me up in the closet until you need me again."

John doesn't know what to say to that. He feels the tension in Paul's thighs, hears the rhythmic tap of Paul's left foot against the thin carpeting. Tilting his head, he presses a light kiss just above Paul's knee and rests his cheek against the sleek muscle.

"Christ." Paul's voice breaks the silence. "It's been two YEARS, John, do you know that? Has it even occurred to you?"

John shakes his head. Paul's leg is warm beneath the soft cotton of his pyjamas.

"D'you even remember the last time?" Paul traces the outline of John's ear with one finger. "When we were in Florida during that hurricane?"

John remembers. It's not all pleasant, but the bits that are, are very beautiful indeed. "I was very drunk," he mumbles. "You were very drunk, too. You played a major concerto on the porcelain tuba."

"And we talked about our mums, remember? And then you told me..." Paul takes in a ragged breath. "We made love, John, with the crazy thunder and wind, and just one candle sputtering because the lights were out."

"Aye," John replies, flushing a little at the memories.

"If I'd known, right then," Paul says, his voice almost breaking, "that it was the last time, then I'd have...I don't know, paid more attention, maybe. But you haven't come to me since then, not once--"

"That's not fair," spits John. "You're always with Jane, or with some other bird. Hell, you could have an entire aviary, there've been so many!"

"What a laugh!" Paul pulls away from John and sits tailor-fashion with his back against the headboard, his arms folded over his abdomen. John flashes back to the nightmare for a terrible few seconds. He crawls onto the bed and kneels in front of Paul's crossed legs.

"I can't have a fucking aviary, John," Paul continues harshly, "because you've got me in a cage. You have two cages, one for me and one for poor Cynthia, and we can only beat our wings against the bars and try to get your attention."

"I didn't ever mean--"

"Two fucking YEARS, Johnny!" Paul's eyes are dilated, the pupils completely obscuring all the beautiful colors of his irises. "And now we've got a new storm of your devising and all of a sudden you're sticking your head in my cage again. But I can't sing for you anymore." 

John can hear Paul's angry lead guitar, the one he shared with George, on "And Your Bird Can Sing." So much pain. So much pain.

Like a gunshot to the gut.

"I'm sorry," John says, and he knows how impotent the words are. "The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you."

Paul hums a noncommittal answer.

"Has it really been two years? Since...any of this?" John rifles through his memory but can't come up with anything other than playful pats in the studio and the occasional query of "You all right, love?" Back in their early days, the two of them had been all but inseperable, nights on end spent whispering and caressing.

Then there was Julian, and fame, and touring, and movies, and...and...and...

And John breaks.

He hunches over, his hands grasping the back of his head. He put them all in danger, but it's Paul he hurt the most. It doesn't matter that he didn't mean any of it, didn't intend for it to happen. 

The shaking starts again, and he can't make himself small enough or warm enough to stop it. Speaking is out of the question, because every time he opens his mouth a horrible, keening wail comes out of it. His breathing becomes shallow and erratic. His heart beats so fast that he knows he's about to die.

Peripherally, John is aware that the mattress is shifting. Paul is getting up, Paul is going to stand there and watch him die, Paul is going to leave him forever without a backward glance...

Paul has covered John's body with his own, draped over his trembing form like a cloak. "C'mere, Johnny, it's gonna be okay." He tugs at John's arms. John lets him rearrange him like a rag doll, with Paul leaning against the headboard and John snuggled beside him. 

"I'm sorry." The words barely come out of John's throat, the shape of them an unfamiliar weight on his tongue. He gazes up at Paul, hoping to find absolution.

It's there, because it's Paul, and that's what Paul does - he'll always forgive John a thousand times over if need be. Paul's fingers wind through John's hair and he leans forward to kiss John's clammy forehead. "Daft boy," he whispers warmly.

Relief sings through John's nervous system. He reaches for Paul's face again. There's no rejection this time, only Paul's lips pressing against his with such an aching tenderness that John feels a fresh wave of guilt for keeping Paul waiting for so, so long.

Their kisses are like nonsensical Morse code: short, short, short, long, short. Paul knows, somehow, which kisses come next, just as he follows John's lead in the studio. But John doesn't want to lead tonight. He's too fragile, too contrite.

Paul knows this, too. He crouches next to John, smiling softly as he unbuttons John's pyjama top and caresses his chest. "Lift up," he instructs, and John obeys, allowing Paul to strip him bare.

In return, John reaches for Paul's clothing. Paul shakes his head. He stills John's hands, lifts them to his lips, and kisses them. "Let me, Johnny," he breathes, "let me take care of you."

"Why?" John hears himself asking.

Paul doesn't answer in words but in touches. Some are meant to tease, others to arouse. John responds to them all. Paul is tuning John the way he tunes a guitar, each string played and adjusted, played and adjusted, until the whole instrument resonates perfectly. And oh, John resonates so beautifully, just for his Paul, his Paulie.

He comes in Paul's mouth, biting back his cries lest the redneck guards hear him.

He doesn't remember anything after that.

He's not sure if it's minutes or hours later when his eyes flutter open. His body is finally, finally relaxed after a whole week of unbearable tension. He turns his gaze to Paul, sitting beside him in the narrow bed with a cigarette held carefully in his left hand.

"Hello," John says, a little shyly. "Did I...?"

"You kind of blacked out. I think you were holding your breath." Paul takes a drag on his cigarette, the offers it to John. The filter is still moist from Paul's lips. 

John welcomes the hot rush of smoke in his lungs, a reminder that he does, in fact, know how to breathe. "That was really amazing, Paul."

"I'm glad. It felt a bit weird." Paul touches the scar on his upper lip. "I haven't done...this. Since the accident. It's still a bit numb."

"At least your tooth's capped, or I'd have a shredded willy." John hands the cigarette back to Paul, letting his fingers skitter over his hand.

Paul fumbles and it falls in his lap, burning a little hole in his pyjama bottoms. "Shit!" he hisses. He grabs the cigarette gracelessly and stubs it out in the ashtray. 

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." Paul runs a fingernail across the seared edges of the fabric.

"Maybe," John says hopefully, "it's time to get rid of 'em." He reaches for the waistband but Paul pushes his hand away. It's not a rough or angry gesture; if anything, John thinks there's sorrow in Paul's touch.

"I'm okay," Paul says again, but it means something different this time.

John's stunned, as if he'd fallen down and had the wind knocked out of him. He puts his hand on Paul's chest, feeling the quick, steady thumping of his heart. "I don't understand," he whispers. "I thought you...wanted me."

"I did. I do. God, John, I want you more than my next breath." Paul turns over and folds John up in his arms, his chin on top of John's head. "But if it's going to be the last time, then I'm just not ready."

John struggles free of the embrace so that he can look into Paul's eyes. Even without his glasses, he can see the haunted pain there, the fear. John's voice echoes that fear when he asks, "Why would it be the last time?" 

"Because of what you are," Paul sighs as he runs his fingers along John's jawline. "You're a cherry bomb, John. Sure, you're just fizzling now, sending out bright, colorful sparks, but someday you're gonna explode, and I can't let myself be blown apart by you."

John starts to make a lewd, obvious joke, but one look at the agony in Paul's face is enough to change his mind. 

"I'll be more careful," he says instead, but the words sound hollow even to his own ears.

"Johnny..."

"Paul, no..."

"You know I'm right."

He knows. And he hates it.

"I do love you, though."

Paul's voice cracks as he replies, "I love you too, Johnny."

They cling to one another, each committing the other to memory. After a while, after a few more endearments and a promise to let John make love to him in the morning, Paul's breathing finally evens out and he dozes off in John's arms. 

John doesn't want to sleep. 

He's got the rest of his life for that.

***  
END  
***


End file.
